


Home

by nevtelenwriting



Category: King Arthur
Genre: Anal, Angst, Blood, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, First Time, Frottage, Huddling For Warmth, I really don't know how to tag, M/M, Misery, Oral, Original Character(s), Pain, Sparring, canon character death, so it's sort of Hannibal related, there were a lot of knights before 15 years were up, this wouldn't exist without Hannibal, violence of the knightly nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan was a warrior at heart. Galahad always dreamed of something beyond the death and battles that stained their hands and their souls red with blood. He didn't think Tristan shared his dreams for a home. Tristan didn't know Galahad wanted anything more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be an ongoing project of Tristan and Galahad's last few months together, as well as the relationship that unfolded and fell apart over the years preceding the movie King Arthur. This will continue to the end of the movie, so expect pain and misery with canon character death. I apologize.

Their group separated after Arthur’s ill news soured their merry making. One more mission; one more chance to lose their lives. No one drank or sang after his proclamation; it was a farce of celebration, now, with death hanging like the Fates’ blade over their feeble threads of life. There was no mistake about it; going into the North was simply suicide. Tristan did not expect anything different from their masters. He couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised.

Dagonet and Bors wandered off into solitude, the former likely calming the latter with more drink and time with Bors’s children. Lancelot stormed away to have a parent-talk with Arthur. Gawain quickly drowned himself in the warmth of the woman who had been crowding his lap for the night. Galahad had been dragged in the same direction by Gawain, and Tristan imagined that Galahad would commit the same vice as Gawain, now that he had the chance to. Galahad likely thought this would be his only chance for warmth.

Tristan swallowed down the burn of sickness bubbling in his throat and told himself it was from the cheap wine disagreeing with his stomach and not the disgraceful anger boiling his blood. He pilfered their stock for another draft of alcohol, focusing on the liquid warming his belly and flushing his cheeks. He wished he hadn’t a care for what Galahad did with himself in the night, their one night taste of freedom before being sent on to their inevitable end. Tristan wished dreadfully that his normal apathy for his comrade’s pastimes could be willed forward, but worry for his already inebriated friend drinking himself to death, accidentally or otherwise, won out. Though the idea of him being so drunk he couldn’t perform put a smile on his lips.

Setting the wine back on the shelf, Tristan went searching for the babe of their group. It did not take long; he was in the bar Gawain had dragged them to, drinking as he expected him to be, though the young knight was alone. News had stretched quickly through the small village of Hadrian’s Wall, and women now looked on in pity rather than desire. Tristan stopped in the doorway for a moment to watch his friend drink himself into a stupor, assessing whether he was even attempting to find peace in pleasure. Once or twice a woman approached him, endeavoring to speak to him, to touch him, but Galahad pulled away after a moment of flirtation, and that was the end of that. So he was _not_ trying. Interesting. Embers rolled in Tristan’s stomach, residue of the alcohol but also something else, something more primal that he had long since grown used to and he quietly stamped it out as he walked towards his comrade.

“Galahad,” he addressed him plainly and stood to his side. The young knight grumbled against his cup, head resting in the palm of his upturned hand. His eyes remained closed and Galahad didn’t afford him the decency to look up. Tristan sighed.

“Come, you’ve had enough.” Tristan placed his hand outward, and now Galahad moved; he struck Tristan’s hand away and glowered up at him with hazy, dilated eyes.

“I can choose my own peace for the night!” Galahad snapped; a pointed glare fixed on Tristan as the younger man downed the rest of his mug in one gulp. Absolutely childish. Tristan bristled mostly unseen, and frowned. His patience from the day’s events was as thin as the others; more so than the others with his mortification bearing down on him like twin weights on his shoulders. He had no tolerance for games tonight. The older man grabbed Galahad by his upper arm and hauled him roughly to his feet.

“Your peace will be our despair tomorrow when we are to tend to you vomiting on your horse,” Tristan seethed slowly, bitingly but quietly as to not raise a ruckus in the bar.

Galahad’s eyes remain narrowed as he jerked his arm away, holding his ground for a few tense moments. Tristan leveled his gaze, lip twitching, and when he saw the minute flinch in Galahad’s eyes he knew he’d won. Galahad obeyed his elder and walked briskly out of the bar without a word to him; as briskly as he could after bumping into the table, two chairs, and nearly careening into the wall he eventually used as support out the door. Tristan snorted but followed behind, albeit slowly, his head light from the drafts he had. He didn’t often get drunk; he detested the feeling, but tonight was different. There was too much weighing on them to face it both head-on _and_ sober.

Galahad managed to stumble out into the night, a hand to his temple and Tristan was fairly sure he would be sick before the night was through. Instead of venturing left towards his allotted quarters, however, Galahad suddenly lurched to the right. With an exasperated exhale, Tristan followed. He trailed him to an area between buildings, where Galahad wavered for just a moment before doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the dirt path. Alright, the sickness came a little sooner than Tristan expected.

“Charming,” Tristan hummed snidely, and Galahad moaned pathetically, back arching like a cat with a hairball as he heaved into the dirt again. Tristan let him wallow in misery for a few minutes, commenting on his exceedingly low tolerance.

“And just remember,” Tristan sighed softly, examining his holster for wear, “The horse is going to be swaying, rocking, and jerking underneath of you all the morrow.”

“Oh gods, I hate you,” Galahad gasped pitifully, and Tristan smirked.

“Remember your limits next time, _balachan_.”

It was a name long since used in taunt; the entire group had taken to calling Galahad their _little boy_ , for his naïve fire, his too-wide eyes and messy boyish hair, and utter lack of facial hair. When the years passed and he still couldn’t grow hair, the joking name only grew in hysteria until Galahad was burning red in embarrassment each time the name was used. It was not until his twentieth year that he could even grow more than a dusting. The name stuck, though now it is more of an endearment. Their little babe.

Galahad couldn’t even protest the name tonight, as much as he despised it. When the taunt was met with silence Tristan looked over to find Galahad trembling. Even the greatest of soldiers became weak kittens under duress of too much alcohol. Taking pity on his friend, Tristan ripped a piece of his tunic to give to Galahad to wipe his mouth once his breaths evened out amongst the heaves. When he finished, silent with his shoulders hunched inward in shame, Galahad let Tristan take one of his arms and draped it over his shoulders, helping him walk back to his quarters. Galahad hiccupped softly, leaning into Tristan’s weight gratefully as they walked together. Tristan could feel the heat of his body, increased with the wine to a flushed sheen of red; the defined lines of muscle even through the thick leather that protected their skin. He took a slow breath and pretended he didn’t notice the warmth flush against him. It brought too many painful memories.

“Wait,” Galahad said thickly, stopping in his tracks and nearly making Tristan trip. He arched a brow.

“What is it?”

“Go south,” Galahad cleared his throat, grimacing at the bile burning his mouth, “I need… I need to get out of the village.”

Tristan shook his head, nudging him forward towards their rooms again, “You need _rest_ , my friend.”

“I will,” Galahad answered curtly, his feet stubbornly digging into the ground. Tristan felt the urge to roll his eyes creep up.

Galahad tried again, but with no less bitterness in the tone, “Afford me this one favor.”

Tristan briefly considered picking up his friend and carrying him like a maiden to his bed. The embarrassment alone would silence him for the night and the rest of the following morning, regardless of who was privy to his distress. But instead, Tristan decided to indulge Galahad. The elder turned them around and guided them out towards the clearing south of the village.

Once they were away from inhabitants and out to the field Galahad broke away, managing to gradually but assuredly take his own steps; he likely chose to come here to clear his head with the fresh air. A wise choice, at the very least. Galahad stopped once he was far enough away that the village was nearly out of sight. Tristan stood beside him silently.

Then, much to his surprise but not beyond his understanding, Galahad began to laugh. He laughed up to the Heavens, eyes bright with alcohol, before he crouched down, world likely spinning too much to remain fully upright while a broken smile that didn’t reach his eyes split across his reddened lips. He slid his hand through his hair as he laughed, breathless, fisting the messy brown curls and tugging them hard before his laughter turned anxious, panicked, and finally, pained. His eyes closed as he chuckled derisively, a snort, petulant sniff breaking through the agonized sound tearing his voice, and the laughter dissolved into something close to sobs. Tristan said nothing, did not pass judgment on his comrade. They all felt the loss tonight. Slowly, he dropped down to his knees as well, sitting cross-legged on the ground while Galahad balanced himself on his haunches.

“Is it—” Galahad cleared his throat, masked the thickness of it before he thought Tristan would notice, “Is it so much that I don’t want to die for an empty cause? Everything… everything we were forced to fight for, meant nothing _._ Our lives for _nothing._ ”

Tristan simply listened to him; he had no thoughts on the matter that he wished to express. They fought, and they would fight again. It was their lives, and their chosen destinies. They would be free when it came. They would all die eventually. Tristan preferred for his death to be on the battlefield, in glory of the fight. He did not want to wither away into nothingness.

After the silence passed for too long Tristan knew Galahad was waiting for him to speak. They often played this game; Galahad coaxing the words out of him with sheer obstinacy. Oftentimes, Galahad appreciated his silent companionship. Other times, Galahad made it some vain endeavor to prove Tristan was not as unsympathetic as he led people to believe.

“While there may be no cause, there is no such thing as action with no meaning,” Tristan supplied, after a moment of contemplation.

Galahad snorted, “I wish not to die so easily for meaning I cannot see. The last fifteen years have been a pointless nightmare.”

At that, Tristan bristled. While their cause may have been for something they did not believe in, Tristan did not consider their camaraderie and time together for naught. Fifteen years with the same men, learning them from the inside out could not be considered pointless.

“There is glory in the battles we won,” Tristan muttered, an edge in his voice that Galahad did not hear.

“There is glory in _living_. Surely you want happiness in your life, Tristan. Do not pretend you don’t.”

The very thought that Galahad assumed what Tristan wanted, after everything that had fallen apart between them, made a bitter grimace twitch the corner of his lips.

“You are blind to what you’ve learned in your years,” Tristan sneered out. “You wish for us all to go back to being naive young boys in farming villages.”

Galahad rubbed a hand over his face with an exasperated grunt, and dropped down on his behind, knees drawn up so he could sling his forearm over one of them. He glared at Tristan from the corner of his eye, and the older man met his gaze dead on.

Galahad sneered right back at him then, “So it is _childish_ of me to wish for freedom? For peace?”

Tristan’s throat tightened around an angry knot, infuriated words twisting and choking his breath away as his fist clenched with the desire to strike his friend in the jaw. He didn’t care that Galahad assumed their years a nightmare. He _really_ didn’t care. Galahad had always been petulantly, ignorantly opinionated. Tristan took a breath, and loosened his fist.

“I wish you your _peace_ once we are done, brother, I promise you.”

The words were colder than Tristan intended to make obvious, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to care for that, either. Tristan stood, brushing off his trousers before turning to leave his friend to his musings. The alcohol was confiscated, and other than the glassy sheen in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks, Galahad appeared fine. He could wallow in drunken misery on his own.

The younger man’s brow worried together though, and then his eyes narrowed again, both unseen by Tristan as the scout had turned away.

“Why, is that disdain I hear in your tone?” Galahad seethed out slowly. Tristan stopped in his tracks. He chewed the inside of his cheek, the heat of the alcohol in his veins only fueling the angry knot taking up residence in his throat. He felt sick, now, though he knew he shouldn’t waste time with the ill thoughts. He had known Galahad considered their journey a plague for weeks, and had taken enough time to let it go.

“It’s nothing of consequence,” Tristan murmured, shoulders tensing when he heard Galahad rise to his feet. He clenched his jaw when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back around to face the younger.

Both of Galahad’s hands rested firmly on his shoulders once he turned, and Tristan’s thoughts fleeted traitorously to the memory of those hands on his neck, on his jaw, strong and heavy and warm, the memory of their weight familiar and recent enough to fan the embers in his stomach, coiling the heat tightly until it was searing. The knot strangled him now, breath caught in his lungs and making them ache. His heart hammered in his chest like an animal pounding against the sides of a cage, and he clenched his hands back into controlled fists at his sides.

Galahad didn’t notice. The younger man’s brow remained furrowed, angry, but concerned as well.

“Speak your mind, Tristan!” Galahad shook his head. “Tell me what of my desires is so _appalling_ to you.”

Tristan saw the worry in Galahad’s eyes beyond the bitter sarcasm, genuine concern mixed with ignorant confusion, and that stifled anger of a fight not yet forgotten. He wanted to laugh at the naivety of it, how selfishly Galahad’s thoughts ran.

With a shrug of his shoulders he backed out of Galahad’s hold, calloused hands falling limply back to his sides. The elder pretended he didn’t see the hurt in Galahad’s green eyes.

“Nothing.” Tristan repeated, leveling his gaze on Galahad’s, “There’s sorrow to be found in a life where all you can remember is a nightmare to be forgotten.”

There was definite resentment that time, his controlled temper slipping at the corners. Alcohol might not loosen his tongue, but it did loosen his thoughts.

The younger knight snorted at Tristan’s disdainful retort, implication unmissed. This was not a foreign argument amongst them.

“How dare you,” Galahad countered angrily, “I want a—a home, Tristan! A family!”

“And you will be well equipped for which ever lady you choose to warm your bed,” his voice never rose above the level timbre but the hiss was clear, and miraculously, Galahad retained enough of his sobriety to recognize venom laced acerbically in Tristan’s words.

Galahad flinched back, and bit his tongue. It was not often when Tristan lost his temper. The fact he had not lost it yet today remained a miracle. Tristan hadn’t lost his head at their denial of freedom. He hadn’t lost his resolve when the Woads came barreling into their path that morning, unseen by his eyes or by his hawk’s, his dear Isolde’s, and watched his skills splatter like a novice’s in the blood they shed. Arthur told him it was nothing to dwell over; one oversight in years of saving their lives, with no lives lost amongst their band.

“Tristan…” Galahad ventured cautiously, meeting Tristan’s gaze head on, pale eyes on dark. Tristan refused to look away. “This cannot be about…”

“It is,” he snapped out before Galahad could finish, “There _is_ nothing else.”

And Tristan hadn’t lost himself during his and Galahad’s dissolving of their more intimate relationship several weeks prior, that left Tristan bereft of impartial, clearer thought around the other man; when Galahad had spoken of their time together as nothing but a means to gain relief. That it was an amusement to rid themselves of tension from their duties and a way to pass the months by, with no more meaning than simple fucking. How many odd _years_ Tristan found himself vulnerable enough to bare his scarred skin to another human being, to touch and to ask for the stories in the mars; how often in that first year he had taught Galahad the pleasures of the flesh, a virgin in all senses, and then brought the young knight to peak after peak, shining with sweat and pleading his name to the heavens. How many times he had seen ecstasy written on his friend’s young face like poetry, a thousand emotions alight like the sun resided under his skin. How many times they had moaned into their shared furs in the night, with such wrecked abandon it would have made the gods shake with jealousy. The first time they had opened up more than their want, when they shared breath and thought and hope and dread as one after a harrowing mission that cost them so much. How they had lain together and simply breathed each other’s spirit. How many times.

Galahad was at a loss for words, his brow creased together with confusion and hurt, and Tristan bit his tongue on the urge to ask _why_. He knew what was laid out between them. Galahad knew what he had said. Why should he hold a look of such pain? This is what he had _wanted_.

“Tristan, you must understand. What was said that night…” Galahad’s words crack on the last syllable, and a faltering hand travelled up to thread through his hair. Utterly lost. “I want… I want more. There is nothing for us here.”

Tristan’s throat burned. His head throbbed, the ache building up until it felt like an axe was pounding against the back of his eyes. Words choke in the irate knot, what he had wanted to say that night so many weeks ago caught again in his throat. He couldn’t break it free though, and instead only responded with scorn.

“Can you not conjure up even a decent lie?” Tristan was scathing, the taste of the words acrid on his tongue.

Galahad sucked his lip between his teeth, his own glassy eyes looking him up and down. He couldn’t meet Tristan’s own dark eyes again. The scout held his stance, refusing to crumble under the gaze that felt judgmental.

The younger took in a shaking inhale, and stated tentatively, “We are both…worn weary with the day. We have imbibed enough to drown a horse between us. I believe it best that we part, and rest.”

Tristan knew Galahad was right. He had expressed more in words tonight than he had in years. Alcohol never loosened his tongue. The ache of an open wound, however, very often did.

Tristan nodded once, and said deliberately, “Do you need help to your quarters?”

Galahad shook his head no. Tristan turned and left Galahad on his own in the field. He didn’t see the tremble that wracked his friend’s body as he walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Tristan and Galahad's first few years together in the service.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be an ongoing project of Tristan and Galahad's last few months together, as well as the relationship that unfolded and fell apart over the years preceding the movie King Arthur. The story will be written in a series of interlaced present events with flashbacks. This will continue to the end of the movie, so expect pain and misery with canon character death. I apologize.
> 
> I fixed up a lot of the grammatical errors in this chapter, they were pretty bad; the chapter should flow a little easier in parts now. Moral of the story: don't finish, proofread and post all in the same night whilst exhausted. At least drink coffee first.

Tristan had wielded a sword in his hand and a bow strung close to his cheek for longer than he cared to remember. Dragged into servitude by the Roman cavalry was a merely a change of environment. He had no doubt blood would still have stained his hands.

But dragged off he was, and after a short stint of service to another group, he was assigned to Arthur’s legion as penalization for his apparent lacking character. Either in respect or humor for the young Roman, Arthur continuously received the rowdiest, most undisciplined men to his charge, deemed unable to command in a proper militia. Arthur claimed they had simply bequeathed him those with the freest spirits, and therefore the strongest hearts. Naturally Tristan had been skeptical of such blatant naivety from a Roman leader, but gave his new commander the benefit of the doubt for the time being. That was until Tristan saw Arthur in battle, fighting along with his men rather than standing aside like a self-proclaimed god on a hilltop. He won Tristan’s allegiance in a single breath.

Tristan had been the fourth to relocate to Arthur’s group, directly after Percival. Whether there had ever been a time when Lancelot was not by Arthur’s side, Tristan did not know; the pair were inextricable, and likely to only ever part in the finality of death.

Slowly, he watched their knights grow, with Bors coming in next with the hottest head, and then Dagonet, the most strong-willed of men Tristan had ever known, and they all faced the same incredulity of Arthur’s tactics when they arrived. But time and again Artorius proved himself, and while not always yielding, his knights were loyal, and unquestioning of his leadership. His unorthodox methods of equality and tolerance to a band of Pagan Sarmartians under a Catholic commander turned their auxiliary of misfits into one of the most infamous, formidable Roman cavalries in all of Briton.

Not without their headaches, of course; a force like theirs had innumerous moving parts, all with their own varying opinions and drives and hatred for their service that balanced them all precariously on the edge of a whetted blade. Tristan tended not to give much thought to the group's rough edges and petty squabbling; no one stood out extraordinarily enough to him to give them the time, and no duty they were obligated to perform held any conflicting interest.

Tristan thought too soon, he realized, as their band continued to grow beyond the first dozen in the succeeding months. One by one their group swelled into a raucous tension of masculinity and ego, some more inclined to defend it than others. And then some were Galahad.

Galahad was, ultimately, the last addition to their group after the young brothers Yvain and Erec, following them only by a few weeks. He had been relocated after speaking once too often of the ludicrousness of their service in too close proximity to an officer, and thus mockingly claimed he would be better suited for Artorius’s destructive mercenaries. Some superior thought it not so mocking, and thus Galahad was transported their way. He was still fresh from the sparse training they had all received and wet behind the ears, hands spotless of blood and eyes just a little too glossy and wide with his youth. Galahad was the youngest in the cavalry, not by many years physically but by the naivety he carried with him. Such proud, bright thoughts in a dismal world.

Though he was still indeed young, with his boyish lips and smattering of hair he could barely just grow on his jaw; the babe of the infantry that despised being coddled or condescended which really, only spurned the other men on. He was untrained, but what he lacked in experience he made up for passion, strategy, and sheer tenacity. To hone their skills for survival, they all sparred together, and Galahad’s pride and overconfidence made him hit the ground more often in his first three weeks than any of them had in their first three years. Yet, when others’ confidence may have been too bruised to do so, he kept getting back up. Unwavering stubbornness aside, Galahad learned quickly, and fought harder than them all. Even if the man never believed it, he had earned all of their respect; Tristan’s included. He was remarkable with his fire, more so than Tristan had ever seen in any man sentenced to this life. But damn him if the boy didn’t _infuriate_ him so with such zealous ego.

Galahad held Tristan’s interest like no other had, which started out as a quiet curiosity when the boy took an interest in _him_. Galahad was like a hawk how he watched Tristan, inquisitive, awestruck, and perhaps appalled when it came to battle. He poked and prodded questions Tristan had no desire or inclination to reply to until the smarter members of their band told Galahad to lay off if he wanted to keep his fingers and his tongue. Galahad ceased his questions, but they turned instead to jabs and insults. Tristan allowed his silent intrigue to be no more than that, if only that the boy’s sarcastic wit made Tristan want to throttle him.

His unobstructed fascination suddenly intensified when the boy’s proclivity with a bow grew too profound to ignore, and the promise for so much more with his hawk-like eyes and steady hold made Tristan unable to keep to himself. The desire to teach the boy how to aim sharper, and fire farther was nearly too much to ignore. Tristan’s apathy broke after Galahad’s indirect chiding challenged Tristan—something along the lines of Tristan being too piss poor of a teacher to show him anything useful— to train with him. Though what he really asked was for Tristan to _train_ him. And so he did.

Tristan was anything but a kind instructor. He berated Galahad, ran him through exercises that left him close to sweating blood, and guided him through fixing and maintaining his own bow so that he would know his weapon from the inside out. He was never unfair, however; he gave him credit where it was due, small nods of his head when he did something right, and practiced alongside the younger man until they collapsed from the exertion and Galahad complained he was a glutton for punishment. Sometimes Tristan would snort; other times the boy managed to make him crack a smile, though he never let Galahad see.

Galahad’s interest only grew; the morbid attraction clear in his flickering eyes to find something Tristan simply didn’t understand. Galahad wasn’t finding it though, as his frustration mounted with his interest as his jabs grew in candor until his brash grousing was mandatory for their training sessions. Tristan couldn’t care less, so long as the boy kept learning. He also couldn’t doubt that his own interest swelled with each sputtered curse and flush of anger on his still smooth cheeks. It was enrapturing to watch the passion flash in his face like a lightning strike, as easily as wearing his heart on his sleeve.

After those first two years, they all watched Galahad grow out of his awkward limbs, fleshing out with sinew and strong muscle and hair on his face he refused to trim to prove he was finally mature. None thought him otherwise, despite the group’s teasing, but Galahad took pride in his masculinity. That pride and maturity only spiked his infuriating, stubborn confidence tenfold, worsened when he began to hold his own against the other members of the group; including Tristan. And Tristan watched like a disembodied third-party as his carefully maintained fascination for Galahad's extroverted fire and wit, grew into complete captivation with the young man's maturity, unable to stop it from blossoming into something so utterly simple and complicated at once. More visceral, and carnal than Tristan honestly thought himself capable of.

Tristan didn’t recognize it fully for what it was until one unfortunate day he observed Galahad sparring with Gawain. He had watched on in silence at first, restringing his bow while Galahad dropped Gawain to the ground with a bit of effort, straddling his waist and pinning the older man’s wrists to the ground. Gawain sputtered into the dirt while he tried to throw Galahad, attempting to buck the younger off of his back until Galahad wrapped the crook of his well-defined arm around Gawain’s neck, holding onto his own slender wrist to tighten his hold into a vice and trap him.

Gawain fought valiantly for a few seconds longer before gasping out a strangled, “Yield!” and Galahad let go with a breathless laugh, sitting up on his knees and wiping away the sweat stinging his eyes from where it had dripped from his brow. The young man’s face was red, chest heaving from the exertion. A familiar coiling dropped low in his gut, and Tristan swallowed thickly before returning his attention to his bow. It was nothing but circumstance, a reaction to a physical display he wouldn’t put past any of the men.

Tristan understood desire well enough to see it as it was; a pent up frustration all of them, except perhaps Bors, endured throughout their agonizingly long stints of chastity out defending Rome’s land. It wasn’t a foreign concept, he was a man after all, and had spent his fair share of nights warming his bed with men and women alike; more often men, for the simple reason Tristan lived by necessity, and was not a gentle lover. He also did not indulge in pleasures of the flesh as often as the majority of the band, placed in the same circle of abstinence as both Galahad the Virgin and Arthur the Chaste. So the thrumming heat he felt in his gut, coiled like a sleepy, hungry snake peaked curiously at the flushed face of his pseudo-charge, was only due to the lack of intimacy he had. He made a note to quench the hunger clawing in his gut the next time they went to the Wall.

Tristan broke out of his musings when another’s laugh joined in. Galahad was still grinning as he smacked Gawain on the back, presumably after helping the other back on his feet. Bors sauntered towards their pair, clapping slowly, which only darkened the flush on Gawain’s cheeks.

“Getting rusty in your age already, Gawain?”

“Piss off, Bors,” Gawain muttered, and Bors barked out a laugh.

“Oh come, don’t be such a sourpuss! Admit your defeat,” Bors crowed.

 “Yes, admit when your youngers best you,” Galahad teased, and Gawain rolled his eyes before shoving Galahad in the head.

“I will when my younger fights _fair_ ,” Gawain grumbled.

Galahad’s lip twitched as he frowned, “I am no cheat, Gawain.”

Gawain turned to him and snapped, “Tell that to my twisted—”

“Alright _boys_ , alright,” Bors chided, slotting himself in-between the two men while resting his hands on each of their shoulders, and squeezing; a reassurance, and a warning.

“Perhaps we can prove Galahad’s earned his colors, hm?” Bors smirked again, and the glint in his eyes made the pair fall silent. Bors tended to be merciless when he offered his “compromises.”

“How so?” Galahad muttered with a frown, “Shall I fight _you?_ ”

Bors laughed, “Shit, no. You _bite_. No, how about your mentor? Tristan!”

Gods help him.

Tristan contemplated ignoring the men, to instead wander off and enjoy their day of respite in peace.

Galahad snorted, the very idea of it absurd, “Tristan _sparring_? He’d sooner abandon his bow and become a bar maid.”

Apparently the fates were not on his side. Tristan arched his brow at the comparison, the comment alone making up his mind. He set down his bow and stood up from the grass, crossing over to the group silently.

Bors grinned wickedly and pointed over Galahad’s shoulder to the scout’s approaching form, “You might be eating those words, Galahad.”

Galahad blinked in doe-eyed surprise as Tristan stood stock still in front of him, as impassive as ever as he patiently waited. Galahad shoved Bors’s arm off of his shoulder and straightened up, meeting the older man’s gaze head on with a hint of challenge in his eyes Tristan knew very well; while Gawain was good, Galahad was too evenly matched with him. Tristan knew that, but Galahad seemed to think he was honestly a threat to Tristan.

“Fine, old man,” Galahad scoffed, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Tristan couldn’t help it. He ended up smirking at his petulant confidence, lip twitching in a way that turned the smile into more of a snarl, and the fervent pride exuding off the boy withered slightly under his scrutiny.

Bors couldn't contain his snicker, “Oh, this I need to see.”

Galahad’s eyes narrowed, and he bent his knees slightly, arms raised in a gesture begging Tristan to come forward. Gawain and Bors backed off, giving them space.

Instead of taking the offensive, Tristan rolled his shoulders, relaxing his arms and setting one foot back to stable his weight.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tristan stated, just a hint of mockery in his tone, and Galahad’s lip twitched into a frown. He feinted to the left, predictably, before aiming a blow with his right palm towards Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan twisted his body quickly to avoid the hit, bringing his right hand up to grab Galahad’s now vulnerable right wrist. The scout yanked his wrist hard while his left hand punched out towards Galahad’s shoulder, whipping the younger off-balance for Tristan to kick his foot out and knock out the back of Galahad’s knees. He was on his back in three seconds flat. Gawain snorted and Bors howled in laughter.

Galahad wheezed on the ground, gawking lamely before he gathered enough of his bearings to roll onto his stomach and bring himself up on his knees. Tristan stood over the dropped boy, not offering to help him up. His pride was wounded enough.

“Fine,” Galahad snapped, propped up on his elbows and knees and Tristan kept his eyes on his grimacing face rather than the obscenely distracting sway of his hips. “No more games.”

“Good. I hoped that was not _all_ you had,” Tristan retorted dryly, so far unimpressed. He _knew_ Galahad could offer more.

Galahad’s frowned again; from his crouching position he reached out, wrapped his arms around Tristan’s knees, and pulled. Tristan’s eyes widened as he plummeted to the ground with a sharp exhale when the air left his lungs on impact, vision swimming black from the knock to his head. He blinked up at Galahad’s impish smirk before the scout’s mouth set into a scowl.

“I _told_ you!” Gawain exclaimed. Tristan didn’t pay attention to him, eyes fixed on Galahad’s as his own narrowed.

“He knows we’re just _warming up_.” Galahad replied smoothly, arms on either side of Tristan’s hips after he had pried them free of his knees. Tristan watched the challenge glint through Galahad’s eyes, annoyance at his humiliation not enough to cloud Galahad’s itch for a real fight. Tristan scoffed before he rolled back on his shoulders, and kicked Galahad hard in the chest to get him away. The satisfying impact against his sternum followed by a pained little grunt made Tristan’s blood run _hot_.

“Don’t tempt him, Galahad!” Bors called, “This is _Tristan_ , after all!”

Galahad gave no retort, but Tristan watched the hard clench in his jaw as he fought to swallow down the realization, like an icy dip into an unforgiving stream, that he was very much poking at The Beast. Tristan thought the name a bit much, but his reputation had been given various titles by Bors and Percival and even Dinadan, their poet, and they stuck.

Still back on his shoulders Tristan rolled his weight to his hips and jolted up, using the momentum to land on his feet, balancing himself on his hands before standing upright. Galahad already righted himself, rubbing the sore spot on his chest that would surely mottle purple before nightfall. The heat pulsed through his lungs, in his veins, swallowing Tristan in the embrace of an old friend. His breathing slowed, even as adrenaline wanted to shake apart his heart; friendly spar or not, this was a _fight_.

He watched Galahad levelly as the younger settled into a much more formidable fighting stance, less obvious, more defensive. Tristan followed suit, though his own stance was more offensive than the previous. He inclined his head, and waited for Galahad to move.

Galahad took his time now; he started to circle Tristan, watching the elder’s footing as Tristan matched his pace. Very good. Tristan kept their distance equal, mirrored, skirting forward once to see how Galahad would respond. He did through a shift backwards, his arm instinctively rising up in defense of a blow that didn’t come. Galahad frowned deeply when Tristan skeptically tilted his head.

“If you two dance any longer we’ll have to arrange your wedding!” Gawain taunted, and Tristan nearly lost time on his footing from the suddenness of it. Galahad flushed darkly and shot a nasty look at Gawain.

“Keep your trap shut!”

Bors groaned, “Galahad, keep your _eyes on_ your—”

Tristan canted forward and grabbed Galahad by his arm, and twisted it sharply behind his back, darting behind him so that his shoulders dug into Tristan’s chest at the unforgiving angle.

“F-fuck—!” Galahad’s hand flew up to claw at Tristan’s other arm when it wrapped around his neck, cutting off the air. Tristan didn’t relent, seeing how far he could take this before Galahad gave up, or let his stubborn pride knock him unconscious.

Neither occurred. Galahad grabbed Tristan by his thick hair and yanked forward the same moment he snapped his head back, butting Tristan directly in the nose. He saw stars when pain exploded over the bone, stumbling back to hold the appendage for a moment, slick with what he knew was blood. He groaned and shook his head, ignoring the blood dribbling down his lips as Galahad faced him again, arms up and defensive. Tristan settled down and paused for Galahad to make the next move.

Galahad’s grin was more of a snarl that only made Tristan’s blood pound harder as the boy launched forward, wrapped his arm around Tristan’s neck in a headlock and dragged him down. Tristan grimaced and wrapped his own arm around Galahad’s, then jerked Galahad’s elbow down to free  his neck, spinning to lock Galahad’s head under his arm. The younger practically growled as he fought Tristan’s hold, nails biting into the scout’s arm to try to find some semblance of control again. Tristan smirked, resisting the urge to pat the mess of brown curls caught between his side and his biceps. Instead he leaned back to allow his weight to throw off Galahad’s stability. Galahad plummeted to the ground with Tristan on top of him, the scout's hand pinned on his chest to keep him still as the younger let loose a pitiful groan. His eyes clenched shut in pain while he coughed, and attempted to sit up. But Tristan kept him pinned by his chest, until Galahad grabbed Tristan by his wrist and opened his eyes to glare at him.

“Again,” Galahad hissed, and Tristan sighed.

“You don’t know when you quit, do you?” The scout asked idly, weight bearing down harder on the earlier hit in Galahad’s sternum. The boy's eyes nearly rolled in pain and Tristan swallowed thickly when he knew Galahad wasn’t watching.

“ _Again_ ,” he groaned.

Tristan swiftly and quietly stamped down the rather physical reaction he had to that, standing up abruptly so that he could back off and allow Galahad the time to stand up.

Galahad turned back to him once he was on his feet, frustration clear in his hackling shoulders and clenched fists. “I won’t hold back, Tristan,” Galahad muttered with such resolve, Tristan was almost convinced Galahad _hadn’t_ been giving his all prior.

Tristan tilted his head regardless, and nodded once, “Then neither will I.”

The draining color in Galahad’s face should not have been as satisfying as it was; unlike Galahad, Tristan really had been holding back. Tristan wiped his nose with his thumb, coming back slick with his blood. He sneered at it before settled into a defensive stance, one foot back again, and waited for Galahad.

The younger shifted forward, aiming a blow to Tristan’s side that the scout dodged with his arm, and then avoided the next aimed for his neck. Tristan grabbed the slender, but strong hand that latched on his shoulder, twisted it until he heard the bones creak with the force, and punched Galahad hard in the jaw.

The blow sent the younger stumbling back, blood spilling from his split lip and staining his skin crimson. With almost a bewildered look Galahad darted his tongue out to lick the blood away, coating the slick muscle in red. Then his eyes narrowed on Tristan, alight like coals with anger now. They had only one real rule in sparring, no face shots, but Tristan always believed in an eye for an eye; now, their fight was even, and everything _else_ was fair game. From the corner of his eye he watched Gawain and Bors back off a few more feet. Hunger thrummed through Tristan’s limbs like a living thing, only burning hotter through his blood when Galahad bared his red-stained teeth and spat out a mouthful of blood. That visceral ache was back, making his heart pound like a drum in his chest as Tristan stood his ground.

Galahad did not make the first move this time, and waited instead for Tristan’s turn to step up to an attack.

Tristan refused to take his bait, waiting, and watching his movements, until Galahad scoffed and sneered at him, “That all you have, Tristan?”

Tristan scrutinized him for a moment, the fire burning in Galahad’s eyes and in a sudden, heady recognition Tristan realized that Galahad _wanted_ to see him lose his composure. Tristan felt an oddly pleasant, scratching heat drag up his spine, and now, Tristan took the first move.

So the scout feinted forward, forcing Galahad into a defensive posture on his right side before Tristan turned and aimed a blow to his left. Galahad wheezed in pain as the blow spiked through his side, holding on to the smarting flesh for a moment while he raised his other arm to block a blow meant for his shoulder. He used his arm to knock Tristan’s arm away, and in the same momentum jerked his opposite fist forward to slam into Tristan’s stomach. The scout coughed hard as his breath left him, but took hold of Galahad’s wrist before he could draw it away. Trapping that hand from defense, Tristan’s brought his free hand up and slammed the flat of his palm against Galahad’s ear, boxing the cavity. Galahad’s jaw dropped but he couldn’t quiet suck in the air to voice the agony ringing through his ear that threw him off balance, vision no doubt swimming from the blow to his equilibrium. He stumbled back, but Tristan’s hand was still wrapped around his forearm, and he jerked Galahad around to plant the younger’s back to his chest again, this time yanking his head back against his shoulder by his hair so that he wouldn’t head butt him again.

Tristan’s thigh slotted between Galahad’s to immobilize him, and he would deny to his grave that his sharp intake of breath when Galahad bucked back against him to free himself, pelvis to pelvis, was anything but aggravation. Unfortunately the position used both of Tristan’s hands, and Galahad was able to elbow him in the ribs to make Tristan let go, the scout’s eyes nearly crossing. Galahad whipped around, but his ear was still ringing, the movement too fast and he stumbled with a little moan. It was enough time for Tristan to grab him by the sides of his head, fingers slipped through hair slightly dampened with sweat and brought his head forward to knock him viciously in-between the eyes. Galahad went careening back, but not before clenching his hands in Tristan’s tunic, and suddenly the both of them went toppling over into the dirt. His heart was racing, but rather than the roaring in his ears deafening, Tristan had long ago mastered control of his body, and every sound, every grunt and twitch and irate snarl was pristinely clear in his ears as Galahad bucked underneath of him, and knocked one muscled thigh into Tristan’s hip to throw the elder onto his back.

Before Galahad could pin Tristan’s thighs with his knees the scout planted his feet on the ground and fisted the front of his thin tunic, the look of triumph on Galahad’s face washing away into surprise then Tristan tossed him easily off and pinned the younger back down underneath of him. Tristan threw his leg over Galahad’s thigh and locked his foot behind his knee, bearing his weight down to immobilize him while the weight of his pelvis kept Galahad’s hips still. Galahad thrashed angrily, his hand flying up to aim a blow to Tristan’s throat. He caught his hand just as his knuckles brushed his larynx, throat bobbing instinctively as he pinned that hand down, and then grabbed Galahad’s other wrist to pin it as well. Still the boy fought, somehow thinking he could still win and Tristan’s vision tinged red.

Taking both of the boy’s hands in one of his own, he used the free appendage to wrap around Galahad’s throat, and squeezed. But instead of submitting, or panicking, Galahad kept thrashing, trying to get Tristan valiantly off of him though he never would. Tristan’s lip curled and he squeezed harder, until the little snarls of frustration broke off into muted grunts. Galahad’s face turned red, and suddenly, they were in a battle of sheer obstinacy. Galahad met Tristan’s eyes, his own watering around the corners as he fought for breath but still not giving any indication he was ready to yield.

“T-Tristan—” Bors, or maybe Gawain, said somewhere behind him, but neither of them made a move forward to stop him. Maybe they trusted him to stop; maybe they were too afraid to intervene.

Galahd was still turning darker, stupid boy, and eventually Tristan had to let go of his neck, switching his hand instead to fist Galahad's hair and slam his head back against the ground. The younger's fight was renewed with his breath and Galahad tried to buck again, hips grinding up until Tristan nearly bit his tongue off with the effort not to jerk away from him like he was burned.

“Learn when you’ve lost,” Tristan hissed, irritation hiding the desperation for Galahad to give up before a more incriminating response made itself known.

Tristan could feel the fire of Galahad's aggravation in the heat of his breath, ghosting over his nose, his lips in fumes of anger. Galahad’s eyes were flickering with irate frustration, strong forearms and thighs flexing underneath Tristan’s weight as he bore down on the younger, lither body. The urge to meet his bucking hips was so powerful he could taste the fever heat on his tongue; he wanted to spread the boy’s bare, muscled thighs apart, shove up his tunic and _rut_ against him until Galahad relented and howled his name to the sky.

Tristan blinked, the thoughts shocking him enough to jerk away from Galahad. Though Galahad did not concede verbally, it was clear their match was over. Tristan righted himself onto his feet and held out a hand to help his comrade up, which Galahad took begrudgingly. Tristan managed to swallow down a few calming breaths. He could feel his heartbeat in his _throat_.

“One more time,” Galahad spat, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth to clear the blood there.

Tristan snorted and clenched one hand into a tight fist behind his back, willing the heat in his blood to calm down.

“Go back to sparring with Gawain.”

Galahad colored brightly and spat out an angry curse, but Tristan just turned and walked away, grateful for the thick clothing he wore hiding the unfavorable arousal now pulsing against his wool trousers.

It was the adrenaline, Tristan told himself. Adrenaline, anger, and the heat of the day that ignited desires in Tristan he had not sated in an achingly long time. He was deprived, and human contact, even violent ones, were a hair trigger on his senses. He could control himself again as soon as he satisfied the need.

But it didn’t work. Though they went back to the Wall, and Tristan sated the lust, when he returned to training Galahad he immediately felt the quickening in his breath when the younger practiced with his bow, and liquid heat settling low in his gut when Galahad challenged him, and lost, to another match. Tristan left with an uncomfortable gait he excused as an injury.

Tristan only maintained his denial for so long until it crumbled into admittance he desired Galahad. He knew the passing wants that had flittered through his mind, sometimes manageable, sometimes not. But now he could not quell it, a fascination turned into an annoying, distracting want that was increasingly difficult to hide. It was unacceptable.

So Tristan distanced himself. His teachings came more brutally, more grueling and tasking than before that left the young knight gasping, sweating and irate by the end of their sessions. Galahad would snarl and spit slurs and curses about Tristan’s inhuman expectations, eyes so bright they shined like embers in anger at the monster of a man teaching him. And gods, if it didn’t have the opposite effect of what Tristan wanted. The fever heat scorched through his limbs like a living thing, a traitorous snake eating him alive from the inside out. He _wanted_ him terribly.

However, Galahad stopped being so cordial with him, stopped lingering behind to watch Tristan do his work. As the weeks when by his trainings with Tristan changed from voluntary, to necessary. Tristan could see the anger and resentment replacing the curiosity a little more each day, casting the soft bow of his full lips into a scornful frown. Just as well. Tristan could not nurse what he wanted in times like this.

Eventually, the fiery want tapered into a controllable ache. He could snuff it quietly out when it suddenly sprang into his thoughts, and he could ignore it on the more persistent days in favor of reminding himself just how infuriating the stubborn headed child was.

It sufficed, for many years, until a harsh winter passed that required their group to cluster close for warmth.


End file.
